


Depths of Winter

by dornfelder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All these months, Stannis has been sleeping alone, and does so even now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Depths of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В разгар зимы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2554943) by [MaShShka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaShShka/pseuds/MaShShka)



> Huddling for warmth.  
> No, really, some tropes never get old.  
> Also, no beta.  
> Also, slow-paced storytelling.  
> Also, possible ooc-ness.

**Depths of Winter**

Winter has come. As they wait for the Others to arrive at the Wall, they prepare for battle. No signs point to an impending attack yet. 

Of the twenty thousand men guarding the wall, fifteen thousand belong to Stannis: his stormlanders, and the north men who flocked to his banners once he had freed Winterfell of the Boltons. The others are wildlings and sworn brothers, and a few men from the riverlands who came with Brynden Tully. 

With Jon Snow still recovering from his wounds at Winterfell, Stannis has taken over command at the Wall. He gave the brothers no chance to refuse. After they stabbed their Lord Commander, whose life was saved merely by accident, Stannis takes no risks. The brothers will serve him, or they will die, he has made it clear that there is no other choice.

Although the Blackfish is black only in name, Stannis has given him command of the Watch. The black brothers no longer have the right to choose their own leaders, as decreed by the king. 

Stormlanders, wildlings, north men, sworn brothers. They reclaimed ten of the deserted fortresses and castles, restored garrisons all along the Wall so that lights and fires burn everywhere. The north is ready for the fight, ready to defend. As long as there is still hope, they will not give up. 

Twenty thousand men, standing against half a million of Others or more. Hope means waiting for weapons of dragon glass to arrive from Oldtown, hope means waiting for the Targaryens to reclaim their throne, shatter the Lannisters’ defenses and subjugate the Reach and Dorne. Hope means trusting in the ironborn and the Vale to realize that the true battle is fought in the north, and to send them men and supplies, whatever they can spare. Hope means believing the Freys and even the Lannisters are prudent enough to know when their cause is lost, to lay down their arms and reunite Westeros under the Targaryens’ banners against an enemy worse than any mortal creature could ever be.

~~~~~

Men huddle for warmth. Winter has come, and so has the need to stay warm no matter what. In the sleeping quarters, fires burn through the long, dark nights, but that is not enough to keep men from freezing to death, so they bunk together and share blankets and pallets. And if - under they veil of darkness - they share more than that, it is never mentioned in the light of the day. Winter has come and different rules apply. 

Hope is still there, but it starts to wear thin, and desperation does indeed lead to treason and the most horrible of crimes against the laws of Gods and men. It also makes for a weird kind of truce between enemies and, quite literally, for strange bedfellows, a necessity rather than a matter of choice. 

Davos shares his pallet with Ser Wendel Grandison, one of Ser Narbert’s nephews. Despite his uncle being one of the former queen’s men, Ser Wendel is not too eager to offer his prayers to the Lord of Light. Neither does he share his father’s zeal for battle. He is a decent fellow, keeps himself and his blankets clean and contributes to their lair in one of the smaller towers with a heavy bear pelt, which is more than welcome at times like these. Six or eight other men share this level of the tower with them, they have bricks and a fire to heat them in. It is terribly cold nonetheless. They take turns to stake the fire at night although firewood has become scarce, but it seems not to lessen the cold as it should.

Stannis Baratheon falls ill a few days after Jon Snow’s return to the Wall, accompanied by his brother Rickon and, of course, both their direwolfs. While Davos doubts that the Wall is a good place for a child Rickon’s age, he understands Jon Snow’s wish to have his brother close by, protected by Stannis’ men and the Blackfish, his closest remaining relative besides Snow himself. 

After spending a lot of time searching for the boy and looking after him on their way back to Winterfell, Davos has become fond of Rickon and enjoys spending time with him. Meanwhile, Jon Snow refuses to return to the Night's Watch and swears fealty to Stannis, surprising not only the black brothers, but also the king himself. It pleases Stannis to no end, although he tries hard not to let his satisfaction show. 

Davos is intrigued as well as worried. It takes a few days for things to settle after their arrival. Davos spends too much time wondering about what Snow’s return to the Wall will mean to realize that the king is not merely developing a nasty cough but running a fever as well. His attention is called to it by Lady Melisandre and Maester Pylos. While the king recovers well enough under their care, the problem at hand becomes obvious to Davos once they tell him what caused Stannis’ illness in the first place.

Of course his king would be too obstinate to ask someone to share his bed, and too proud to command it. Of course Stannis would not permit anyone else to get so close to him, to watch him sleep and wake up in the morning with stubble and drool on his cheek, vulnerable and as good as naked in his shift and smallclothes. 

All these months, Stannis has been sleeping alone, and does so even now. 

It has only been a cold, Melisandre emphasizes with a frown as Davos inquires after the king’s health. Just a cold, but it is winter, and although they are not yet out of food, thanks to the Manderlys and other allies, they have not enough to indulge. Rations are so small that no one feels full. Hot wine has become a rare luxury. The next time, a cold might turn into pneumonia, and even for a man as strong and determined as Stannis it would be a death sentence. 

“His Grace is an exceedingly stubborn man,” the Lady Melisandre complains. That she displays her annoyance with the king so openly is a rare occurrence. “It is neither prudent nor noble to insist on his precious solitude. I already told him that, but His Grace refuses to listen.”

Stannis is the most aloof, standoffish person Davos has ever met, anxiously guarding his privacy and his dignity both. Melisandre’s astonishment at the extent of his reticence means she is not as astute as she pretends to be. For almost five years now she has been at his side; if she is not aware by now how Stannis hides any signs of vulnerability, she has missed one of his most vital character traits. 

Davos shrugs as he offers her the truth. “I’m afraid that chances of changing his mind in that matter are small,” he says. “I cannot think of any arguments that are likely to convince him otherwise.” 

Melisandre scowls and seems lost in thought for a moment. Then she cocks her head and smiles. “Yet there is someone who might prevail where I must admit defeat.”

“Who?” Davos asks, mildly curious. He does not like the way her smile turns sly as she turns towards him.

“Why, you, of course. Lord Davos.” Ever since Stannis made him a lord and his Hand, she takes care to add his title every time she addresses him directly. Whether it is sarcasm or an attempt to remind him of what he owes his king, Davos wonders every time.

He raises his eyebrows. “Surely you are joking.” He wants to laugh, but Lady Melisandre seems to be quite serious, albeit amused at his obvious discomfort.

“You are a man, Lord Davos, and one of His Grace’s most loyal and trusted followers. You are also the King’s Hand, and certain sacrifices can be expected of you.”

 _I gave him four sons of mine, is that not enough?_ Davos wants to say, and realizes at once that sharing the king’s bed for warmth, while appearing as a quite ridiculous notion, does not count as the same kind of sacrifice by far. “I am no noble, my lady, surely there are men who are better suited to sleeping with the king.”

“And any who he trusts more? Who he holds in the same high regard?”

“High regard?” Davos repeats dryly. High regard means he can tell Stannis the truth without being beheaded. It does not mean Stannis listens to him.

“I would not ask you for your help if it was not necessary,” Lady Melisandre says soberly.

There are quite a couple of things he could say to that: that if Stannis really is Azhor Ahai, should not the Lord of Light keep him warm? The red priestess herself refuses to wear gloves, protected from the cold by her magic, and sleeps alone at night. Since most of the men at the Wall already think that the king beds her, would she not be more suited to keep him company? But Melisandre is right, as much as it pains Davos to admit it. No one else would Stannis trust remotely enough to let them stay in his chambers. 

~~~~~

Davos approaches the subject after a few days of consideration. Once he is sure that Melisandre is right and nothing else can be done, he forces the issue by not leaving the king’s chambers in the evening. 

He tries very hard not to fidget while Stannis looks at him with an irritated frown. It is close to bedtime. Davos’ presence in the king’s room already borders on impertinence. Usually he leaves long before the servants sets to work to prepare the king’s quarters for the night. Davos never has to be _told_ to leave, which is probably the reason why Stannis does not cast him out right away. Even Stannis is capable of basic courtesy, and would not affront a trusted ally without reason. 

After the valet has left the room – not without a suspicious glare at him – Davos voices his request. 

His king’s reaction is just what he expected it to be. 

“You will _not_ ”, Stannis hisses. “I will not permit it. Return to you own quarters, Lord Davos, or otherwise I will have you hanged for disobedience.”

It is an empty threat, Davos hopes. Stannis knows, has to know, that Davos would never betray him in any way: he does not do this hoping he might be rewarded with gifts, does not do this trying to gain influence and power. He does it for Stannis, because he has been, and always will be, his king’s loyal servant. He could phrase it even simpler than that, if he dared admit the truth in his own head. 

“I have no choice, Your Grace,” Davos offers for consolation, trying to lighten the mood. “Lady Melisandre was quite adamant. I would not want to draw her wrath upon me any further.”

“Last time I looked, Lady Melisandre did not rule the kingdom,” Stannis says coldly. “Stop this nonsense and leave, now.”

“No.” 

“Do you truly believe...”

“If I am not allowed to share your bed, Your Grace, I will sleep on the floor. I refuse to leave.” 

Stannis will have not other choice but to call his guards and have him dragged out like a criminal. The whole castle will know before dawn, and nobody would believe the King’s Hand worthy of respect ever again. It is a gamble, that much Davos knows, but it appears as a risk well worth taking. 

Stannis stares at him, expression murderous, eyes blazing. The cruel tilt to the corner of his mouth makes Davos wonder whether he has gone to far, and Stannis will order his guards to take him out to the executioner’s block. Stannis seems to know that, sand something akin to malicious satisfaction shows on his face. Davos holds his breath.

“Always prepared to be a martyr, my onion knight,” Stannis taunts him, voice dangerously soft. 

Davos shakes his head, because no, he most certainly is not. Their eyes meet, and Davos holds Stannis’ gaze, something that not many people are capable of.

It could be that, or even the use of Davos’ old, approved sobriquet, that reminds Stannis of their long, shared history, of the friendship – or what comes closest to it for a man like Stannis – between them; but for whatever reason, the king gives in. 

“Fine,” he says curtly, through gritted teeth. “Have it your way.”

He disappears behind the wooden screen where his bed is standing and starts taking off his clothes: fur coat and gloves and boots. He slides under the blankets without so much as another glance in Davos’ direction.

Davos stands waiting and insecure. Did Stannis mean for him to sleep on the floor, as Davos had so determinedly claimed he would? He would freeze to death; he brought none of his blankets. If he leaves the king’s chambers now, he will without a doubt find the door barred and guarded upon his return. 

Should he join the king in bed? Not without an explicit invitation. He might be bold, but not _that_ bold. 

After a few moments, Stannis snorts. “Not too eager to sleep on the floor, I take it? So by all means, get in the bed, Lord Davos.”

Davos does not need to be told twice. He shivers as he sheds his outer layers. It takes all his willpower to prevent his teeth from chattering.

“Mind to keep your distance,” Stannis warns him, curtly, as he climbs in. 

Davos raises his eyebrows. It is a curious notion: the very point of being in Stannis’ bed is to do the opposite. He nevertheless takes care to oblige his liege lord. At this time of the night, it is not yet as cold. The heat of the braziers is blessedly strong, and the servants warmed the sheets with hot bricks. Only when the coals are gone, chill will seep through furs and blankets, and the bed will be just as cold as any other place in the castle. Any other king might have ordered the servants to keep the fires burning through the night, making them get up during the darkest and coldest hours to ensure his comfort, but Stannis, although he has not much care for the lot of them, is neither a cruel nor a selfish man. In the middle of the night, things will be different, and Stannis will reconsider.

In a bowl beside the bed a lonely candle still burns. Davos waits for Stannis to extinguish the light, but Stannis shows no inclination to do so. 

As minutes pass in silence, Davos closes his eyes and tries to go to sleep. He already misses the heat of another warm body beside him, thinking with regret of Ser Wendel’s comfortable bulk. He starts listening to Stannis’ breaths. They come fast and shallowly and the king’s body is rigid with tension. With his eyes open, arms at his sides, Stannis lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Every exhalation is accompanied by the tiniest shudder, as if he is trembling and forcibly trying to suppress it.

 _Is it the cold?_ Davos wonders. _Or anger? But why would he try to conceal that from me?_ Davos burrows deeper in the blankets and carefully hides the fact that he is watching Stannis from the corner of his eyes.

Stannis’ breaths remains uneven, and he does not relax as Davos had hoped he would. In the darkness, with only the two of them to witness, Davos takes a deep breath and puts a careful hand on Stannis’ shoulder and - he feels silly, addressing him so formally in a situation like this, but what else should he do, he is most certainly not entitled to use his king’s name – asks sofly, “Your Grace?”

Stannis flinches.

Davos hurriedly draws back his hand. 

“No,” Stannis warns him, voice cracking like a whip. “Do not ever -” and does not finish his sentence, draws in a breath like a sob. He turns his head to the side – not facing Davos, but turning away from him. 

“No,” he says again, his voice so flat and tightly-controlled it appears as something tangible that might break any moment. 

Something is wrong and Davos wishes he knew what it is. “I didn’t mean to -” _what, exactly, was it that I didn’t mean to do?_ “I am sorry,” he says instead and means it, without an inkling why. 

Stannis does not reply. If possible, he tenses even more, and Davos can see now that this was a bad idea from the start.

“Should I go?” he asks. 

Stannis stays silent, and Davos takes it for a yes. He starts to move and nearly misses the softly spoken word, almost too quiet to hear.

“Stay.”

Davos turns to face Stannis, but Stannis still has his head averted. Neither does he repeat his request, nor does he add anything else, be it an explanation or a reprimand. 

Stannis is hard to read at the best of times; even Davos, who has known him for so long, fails at discerning between approval and dismissal, between anger and amusement. Now, though, as he looks at his king’s prone form, he recognizes something he has never seen before and never expected to see. _Defeat._

Davos cannot reconcile what he sees with with his assessment of their situation. Why would Stannis feel dejected? Neither lost battles nor life’s cruelest jests have ever made Stannis look like that. Furious, yes, brooding and bitter, yes, but never dejected. Not when Robert made him Lord of Dragonstone and bestowed Storm’s End on Renly, not when the maester told him that Lady Selyse would never be able have another child, not even when Shireen fell ill with greyscale. Yet now Stannis is so miserable that it is obvious in every line of his body. 

It hurts Davos to see him like this, too much to withstand. Drawn toward Stannis, bodily and with heart and soul, he edges closer until he can feel Stannis’ body heat, smell the strong scent of lemon, molten steel and sandalwood soap that seems to surround his king. His heart starts beating faster in both dread and elation. He has never been so close to Stannis before.

Davos supports his weight on his left arm and leans over Stannis, waiting for him to meet his gaze. He wants Stannis to see and recognize the confusion and honest concern and all the other strange things Davos feels. 

Slowly Stannis turns his head. 

Davos inhales sharply, thoughts coming to a sudden tumling halt, as he sees and recognizes the naked _want_ on Stannis’ face. 

He has but a second to make sense of that. Then Stannis sits up and reaches for him, hands tight enough on his shoulders to leave bruises, and kisses him on the mouth. 

It lasts no longer than a second, long enough for Davos to make a startled noise, a mixture between a gasp and a grunt, before Stannis shoves him away as if he has been burnt by the contact. 

Stannis’eyes are a blazing dark blue, more alive than he’s ever seen them, wild and intense and so, so beautiful. 

“Now you know,” he says, and laughs, a hard, self-deprecating laugh with no trace of amusement behind it. 

“You tempt me beyond reason, my Lord Davos. Do you wish you had stayed in your tower, with Ser Wendel and his cousins and kinsmen? This is what your king has hidden from you all these years. Are you not proud to know that you lured me into revealing my innermost, wretched desires, where men more ambitious and ruthless than you failed to unveil them? What do you think of me now, Davos, as I, who has always judged my brother harshly since he succumbed to temptation so easily, confess to the same weakness, the sin of carnal lust? Will you turn from me now, Davos? Will my admission do what even the death of your sons in my service could not?”

Stannis laughs again, a harsh and bitter sound, and falls silent after his outburst.

Davos shakes his head, tries to find his voice. “My lord -”

“Not ‘Your Grace’ anymore? Am I no longer your king, Davos, will you side now with my enemies?”

“Never,” Davos says. “Never.”

He draws a deep breath. “Stannis.” 

Exhales, shakily, his world turned upside down once again by the man he has loved since he first saw him, all those years ago. Stannis was but a boy then, half-starved and fiercely determined, with a strength of character that is sorely missing in so many men of noble birth and commoners alike. 

Davos’ voice wavers. “Do you think that you are alone in this?”

Although he never makes the conscious effort to move them, his fingers lift and graze Stannis’ bearded cheeks and come to rest on the strong line of his jaw. 

“Do you believe that I had not given you this, willingly, in a heartbeat, if I you had ever so much as hinted you wanted it? Not out of duty, do not mistake this, _never_ mistake this. I chose to follow you since you won my allegiance and my obedience as a lord with your justice and honour and loyalty. But you also won my love, all those years ago, because I saw the man you were underneath the layers of duty and obligation and nobility: a decent man, a passionate man, a man who never deemed himself worthy of happiness, and love.”

Stannis stares at him, eyes wide and very nearly desperate. Moments pass, a thousand unspoken words, until Davos gathers the courage to go on.

“Do you really think that I do not share the same desire, buried for years so deeply inside of me that you would never know and feel the need to send me away from your side?”

“You are married,” Stannis says blandly.

“Aye, and I love Marya dearly. We lost four of our sons in the war, and by right, I should be at Cape Wrath with her, mourning them, and raise our little ones to become men as good or better as their brothers. Yet here I am, with you, at your side.” _Where I belong; where I want to be._

“Because duty called.”

“Not duty. You. Just you,” Davos whispers, still a little scared to admit as much. But the strange gleam in Stannis’ eyes tells him it was the right thing to say after all. When Davos leans forward and brings their mouths together once more, Stannis does not pull away. 

He is new to this, Davos realizes soon enough. New not only to kissing a man, but to kissing itself. Trying to hide it, compensating inexperience with forcefulness. His thin lips refuse to soften under Davos’, and he is still so tense. Stannis likely has never been with anyone but Selyse, and their relationship has been cold and distant from the beginning, their interaction limited to the most basic courtesies, barely civil, never cordial. Davos wonders if Stannis has ever touched anyone with affection, has ever been touched in the reverent way of a lover. The thought makes his heart ache fiercely. 

All of a sudden, Stannis retreats, breaking their kiss and shaking his head. “No. This is... it is wrong. We should not - I must not...”

“Why not?” Davos murmurs. His arms are still on Stannis’ shoulders, one hand cupping the nape of his neck. He holds on. “We seek no harm. We will not hurt your wife, nor mine. People will not think ill of you for favouring me – not more so than they already do. I do not seek to gain influence over you, nor would you permit it.”

He leans his forehead against Stannis’, daringly. “It is winter, and it may very well be the last one you and I live to see. I would rather risk what is at stake, than die with the regret of not being brave enough to pursue what I want with all my heart... “ 

Davos has pleaded with Stannis before, but not on his own behalf, not like this.

“I need to be strong,” Stannis whispers, to himself and Davos alike. “If others knew how dear you are to me, what would they think? What would they do to you, to wreak vengeance on me?”

“We will not let them know,” Davos replies, feigning confidence. “And I will be at your side as I always have been, and do right by my king. But here, for now...”

Stannis closes his eyes briefly and swallows. A small smile appears on his face. “As you wish.”

Davos holds his breath, unable to believe that Stannis’ words really mean what it seems.

“My onion knight. So brave, and loyal,” Stannis mocks, a little cruelly. “You might find yourself disappointed. I am not particularly apt in the art of seduction.” 

Disdain, a hint of bitterness. Stannis clearly hates that his insecurities become visible. He forces the next words out as if they pain him inside. “I have never -”

“Neither have I,” Davos tells him. “It is of no importance.”

Whatever restraint was left, falls away as Stannis pulls Davos towards him, kisses him like he wants to devour him, the hunger apparent in every touch and every move. 

Stannis’ words prove true: he is not a skilled lover. Noses and teeth collide, there is too much force in his kisses and not enough enjoyment. It rather feels like he is fighting a battle, like it is one of those things Stannis has to struggle so hard to achieve where other people are simply gifted with them, or rely on instinct. 

Stannis is not an agreeable man. He is demanding at best, impatient, easily offended, resentful when confronted with unpleasant truths yet at the same time despises lies and flattery. He treats even his most trusted allies with an icy politeness, refuses any attempts to instigate familiarity. Gentleness is a foreign concept to him. Whereas he is a man capable of kindness, he hides that fact well, and – since he is seldom shown kindness himself - neither displays nor accepts it with grace. 

If Davos had not known that already, it would become obvious in the way Stannis touches him, like a starving man, without any finesse or hesitation, taking no time to savour, just appeasing his hunger the only way he knows how. 

Davos would be content to let his king have his way with him – would be content to give Stannis anything he wants, in any way he likes – but he cannot. Cannot let him, because Stannis deserves so much more. 

Davos breaks their kiss, his lips bruised and swollen, and takes Stannis’ hands in his. “My king,” he tries. “I cannot do this.”

Stannis’ hands twitch in his, and it takes a visible effort for the king not to free himself of Davos’ grasp. Something flickers in his eyes, and as Davos fails to find the right words, Stannis’ expression closes off. 

“Of course.” He pulls back from Davos at last, hands clenching into fists. A muscle is twitching at his jaw and his lips form a thin, unhappy line. All the light has gone from his gaze. He says coldly: “I would take it kindly, Lord Davos if you refrained to pretend for my sake; if prefer honesty to an unwilling bed partner. Please do me the favour not to mention this incident to anyone, unless you wish to humiliate me further.” 

He turns away from Davos and makes ready to climb out of bed. 

Davos grabs his arms. “That is not what I meant, quite the contrary,” he says, desperate. He wants to cry for how little it takes to convince Stannis he is rejected, how sure Stannis is in his conviction that what he has to offer is inadequate. 

“What I meant is that I cannot do this as a liege, as a subject. I have been - and will always be - your loyal servant; but when we are like this, here, I need you to be _Stannis._ Not my lord, not your grace, just -”

“I understand,” Stannis' voice, rough as gravel, interrupts him. 

“Do you?” Davos looks at him, hopes that Stannis can read his sincerity, his love, his desire. He takes care to hide the pity he also feels, knowing that it is the last thing Stannis needs or wants.

“I do,” Stannis replies, and now there is something different in his eyes, wonderment, maybe. “Davos.”

Davos lets out a breath he barely realized he has been holding. “Will you, just this once, let me take the lead?”

Stannis hesitates, seems to fight against his instinct and the ingrained urge to stay in control, before he gives Davos the curtest nod. 

“Then lay back down.” Your Grace, is on Davos’ tongue, despite his own words.

Stannis obeys, body stiff and unrelenting, but his eyes are still curiously tender with amazement. 

Davos leans over him, taking care not to touch Stannis yet. He has permission, but that is no guarantee that Stannis will not change his mind again. 

He traces Stannis’ cheek with the fingers of his right hand, an exploration rather than a caress, and trails down to his strong jaw, follows the outline of it with his thumb, until it comes to rest on Stannis’ chin. 

Davos leans closer and kisses him, slowly, taking all the time in the world to explore and taste Stannis with lips and tongue. He cannot resist the urge to tease, make the kisses soft and a little wet, tugging and sucking at Stannis’ bottom lip. Stannis gives in and lets his lips part. Davos deepens the kiss, feels Stannis catch his breath. It is surprisingly sweet, and Davos cannot help but think of the boy Stannis was when they met. 

He has never told Stannis why he took the risk to sail to Storm’s End with his cargo of onions and salted fish. Partly because it was a challenge, partly because he hoped for gold. But the real reason – the reason that made him throw overboard all his common sense – was that he wanted to meet the man who was so determined to hold out, starving while his enemies feasted beyond the walls and sent their gnawed off bones and leftovers back with a trebuchet. 

Stannis was nine- and-ten at the time, and bets had been placed in King’s Landing for half a year by then how long he would be able to withstand the siege. 

Everybody else would have surrendered long before. 

When Davos arrived with his little ship and Stannis’ men gathered around him, some of them crying openly, others carried by their comrades as they were too weak to stand and walk on their own, Stannis had been the last one to eat, the last one to take a small measure of fish and a single onion to appease his hunger. Davos had seen it, but had not believed it possible. 

Later that night, he had shared his single skin of sour wine – Fleabottom’s finest - with Stannis, the both of them sitting at a table in the highest tower. Stannis took a slow sip and told him in an earnest fashion: “You are a brave man, smuggler. A reward is due, and will be given. You will be knighted for this, I expect. But justice must be served as well. You committed crimes you will have to answer for.”

Davos almost laughed. “I find that acceptable,” he said, and Stannis nodded and bowed his head the tiniest bit in acknowledgement. 

Davos had been Stannis’ man ever since, knowing he would never be able to turn away from this man. He had fallen in love, and even knowing his feelings were inappropriate and would never be returned had not quenched his desire.

Marya had known when he first told her, after his return to King’s Landing. She knew him better than he knew himself. 

What she would say, if she saw him now, Davos wonders, and knows with certainty that she would not begrudge him this, would be glad for him, knowing that it was not a danger to her place in his heart. She might resent Stannis for the loss of her sons, but not for the love of her husband. 

Davos lets his last doubts and hesitation go.

He kisses Stannis until he cannot breathe and has to let up for air, lets his hands roam freely over Stannis’ body, mapping out a foreign territory. 

He becomes greedy then. Stannis trembles beneath him, and Davos wants more of that, wants him to come apart under his hands. Stannis’ arms come up to his head, stroke down his neck and shoulders, uncertain and hesitant when they come to rest on on Davos’ back. Stannis tries hard to suppress any noises, but when Davos kisses him again, fingers sliding downwards on his arms and caressing the crook of his elbow, where the skin is soft and most sensitive, he sighs in Davos’ mouth and his body relaxes gradually. 

Stannis pulls him closer, and Davos follows immediately. That they are still mostly dressed does not interfere with the slow, sinuous rhythm that starts building between them now as they move against each other. In their passion, Stannis seems to forget himself, moaning quietly, lips tasting the skin on Davos’ neck and sucking on the tender flesh. Somehow Davos’ thigh finds its way between Stannis’ legs, and pressing closer he feels the hot, hard outline of arousal.

His own cock responds eagerly, now that he knows that this will finally happen, that it is real and neither of them will stop and pull away from it. He tugs at the collar of Stannis’ shirt, hungry for more skin, the taste and smell of it. He would stop to take their remaining clothes off, but the though alone increases the urgency. 

Somewhere between now and then - between their mutual confessions and thoughts of the past - the physical act, which seemed the least important part, has become a necessity. Davos thinks he might die if he does not find release in Stannis’ arms. 

Push, pull, a constant source of friction between their thighs and cocks, and hot, wet kisses trailing over hastily exposed skin, are enough for now; there will be time for other pleasures later, Davos hopes, for lazy exploration and artful seduction – not that he is experienced in that – but he knows he cannot last any longer. 

In this, too, he feels like a boy, his climax approaching quickly and inevitably. He waited so long for this, never had a reason to believe it might occur – and now he is truly, irrevocably lost. 

Stannis holds onto him so tightly it almost hurts. His eyes are wide and dark, expression stunned and lost, head thrown back and exposing his throat. “Davos,” he whispers. “Davos.” 

His fingers clench into Davos’ shoulders as the climax hits him. Davos watches him, enrapt, stills his movements to watch Stannis in his pleasure, as his eyes close involuntary, his jaw goes slack and he groans, a deep and urgent sound drawn from the depth of his throat. 

“Gods,” Davos whispers, wetting his lips and tasting Stannis, _Stannis._

The moment Stannis opens his eyes and looks at him, stunned and unguarded, Davos breaks and spills his seed with a drawn-out moan, close to a cry.

Davos lets his forehead rest on Stannis’ chest while he catches his breath. Stannis’ hand is in his hair, combing through the thin strands. When Davos lifts his head to look at him, his features are relaxed, almost peaceful. 

Davos smiles at him, unable to stop himself. He lies down beside Stannis, hand splaying out on his chest. After a moment, Stannis turns his head towards him and puts his own hand on top of Davos’, grazing his maimed fingers with the slightest of touches. 

Davos falls asleep, pressed close to his side, with Stannis’ thumbs drawing slow circles on the back of his hand.

In the morning Stannis looks at him with a closed-off expression and orders him to leave.

In the evening Davos returns to the king’s chambers, and once the servants have left the room, Stannis pulls him close and kisses him with a passion that is new to both of them and endlessly pleasing to Davos. They sleep together that night, and the following ones. 

~~~~~

Winter has come. In the middle of the night, with the cold around them harsh and unforgiving and the Wall a looming presence just outside the king’s tower, as close to each other in the dark as only lovers can be, they dream of spring.


End file.
